


Bottle Rocket

by Scruggzi



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: 1969, Bert is a crotchety old communist, F/M, I can't believe I did all of these!, Jack loves space, MFMM Year of Tropes, Moonlanding, Wardlow TNG, bottle episode, to boldly go where Phryne Fisher has gone before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 01:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13066200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scruggzi/pseuds/Scruggzi
Summary: It's 1969 and Maggie Collins, youngest of the Collins grandchildren, has come to Wardlow for a very special occasion...





	Bottle Rocket

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to the incomparable Zannatea for being my beta - love you muchly darling!

“Aunt P!”

The gleeful shout rang through the hall and into the parlour followed shortly by a small bundle of mittens and enthusiasm, practically spherical with the extra jumpers she was wearing to keep out the chill and wrapped in a long blue and white scarf, proudly emblazoned with the NASA logo. Phryne braced herself for impact as Maggie Collins, youngest of the Collins grandchildren, burst into the room and embraced her in an enthusiastic hug. Jack was leaning on his cane by the mantle smiling over at the pair of them; the nick-name was a never-ending source of amusement to those that still remembered Prudence Stanley, who had passed away many years before young Maggie had been born.

“Uncle Jack!” the child was practically vibrating with repressed excitement and it was honestly contagious.

“It’s today, it’s today. We’re going to the moon!”

She couldn’t have been more eager if she had planned and executed the entire lunar mission by herself.

“I’m sure we are dear, but that’s no reason to forget your manners.”

Mrs Collins, who had hung up her hat and coat in the hall followed her granddaughter into the room at a much more dignified pace and greeted her old friends with a smile. The younger Collins, only very slightly chastised, hung her head briefly and muttered an apology. Further, lengthy liturgies on the subject of the space race were cut off by the need to remove the innumerable layers the girl wore to protect her delicate chest against the cold July weather. The warmth of the little parlour was now making her visibly perspire and her grandmother dispatched her to the hall to dispose of them. Phryne rose from the sofa to take her friend’s hand, planting a kiss on her cheek which left the faintest smudge of red behind.

“Dot, darling, wonderful to see you. Take the weight off your feet why don’t you and I’ll get Emma to bring us in some tea.”

“That sounds lovely, I could use a cup, it’s freezing out there.”

Dot rubbed her hands together to restore feeling and took a chair close to the fire, she had a touch of arthritis in her hip that troubled her in cold weather and the heat was a welcome relief.

“Good to see you Dot.” Jack took the seat next to Phryne on the sofa, propping his cane against it right where Maggie was guaranteed to knock it over as soon as she returned – which was taking a suspiciously long time even with the extra layers.

“Did I detect your handiwork earlier? I was admiring Maggie’s new scarf.” Coveting would have been a more accurate term. Jack had followed the progress of the Apollo mission with almost as much enthusiasm as Maggie, culminating in an incident with a bottle rocket which had terrified the neighbour’s cat so badly it hid in a tree all day and earned the pair of them a stern telling off from both Mrs Collins senior and her daughter in law.

“I thought you might like it.” Dottie’s apple cheeks rose in a grin that hinted at the lovely young woman she had been, even as is brought out the laughter lines around her eyes. “In fact, as it’s a special occasion I finished your jumper early this year.”

She reached down to her carpet bag and extracted a large parcel, wrapped in blue paper. It was covered in rosy-cheeked children in space suits with ray guns and flying saucers. They were - for reasons best known to the artists responsible - surrounded by snow covered Christmas trees.

“Here you go, I thought you might want to wear it for the big moment.”

Having been quietly horrified by the poor fit of Jack’s jumper during the case in the mountains, Dot had made a tradition of knitting him a new one every year since 1930; a fact which Jack found very touching, and which allowed Phryne to exercise a greater degree of surreptitious influence over his winter wardrobe than he had ever realised.

Smiling in thanks and with the excited anticipation that all things space related seemed to bring out in him, he carefully removed the paper and pulled out his jumper, dark blue to match Maggie’s scarf, it was a simple, plain knit, with the NASA logo on the front in white. He pulled it on immediately beaming, the action rumpling the curly mass of white hair which had previously been so carefully combed.

“Oh, Dot it’s perfect!” Phryne couldn’t help but smile at her partner’s enthusiasm, and at the way the blue of the wool brought out the colour of his eyes, as deep and intense today as they had been when she had first seen them, full of disapproval and irritation at the doorway to a crime scene. “You know I’m never going to be able to get him to take it off now?”

Dot laughed as Jack – who had been admiring the fit in the little round mirrors Phryne had hung as decoration on the parlour wall - shot his partner a knowing look. It had been nearly 40 years since he had put up any resistance to her getting him out of clothing of any kind, and he wasn’t about to start now.

At that point Maggie re-entered, accompanied by the maid Emma, a tea tray and a plate of sandwiches. There were also cream scones which Phryne eyed surreptitiously; her doctor had concerns about her blood pressure, but it was a special occasion and for all her impeccable qualifications, the woman was no Elizabeth MacMillan. No-one ever would be.

Having ascertained that there was nothing further for her to do here, Emma gave a professional nod and returned to the kitchen where there were biscuits in the oven, she ran a very efficient household.

Maggie’s eyes lit up on seeing Jack’s jumper, “Uncle Jack, you’re the same as me!”

Sure enough, her layers had been stripped away with the exception of a matching blue jumper. It would have taken the power of a human freight train to extract her from it and luckily, the only one nearby rather approved of the obsession.

“Do you know Aunt P,” Maggie began, in the serious tones of a nine-year-old scholar, “the man who is up in space flying around the moon is called Michael Collins, just like my dad?”

As it happened Phryne did know, she had been informed of the fact at least twice every time she had seen Maggie since the girl had discovered the identity of the astronaut in question; she could hardly have been prouder if it was her actual father up there. Phryne however had come prepared for this meeting.

“I do know Maggie; but do you know that the person who wrote the computer instructions to get them there is a woman?” Phryne had never been particularly interested in technology, although the romance and speed of space travel could possibly be a match for her plane if only someone would let her fly the rocket herself. She did, however, appreciate it when women excelled in a man’s world and thus tried to keep herself informed; she wanted her little protégé to know that no matter what anyone said to her – and they would say many things - there were no limits to what she could achieve.

“No.” Maggie’s eyes were as round and curious as a Maggie Collins who was about to Learn Something About Space; her all-time favourite state of being.

“Her name is Margaret, just like yours. Margaret Hamilton, and she is in charge of all the people who make the computers on the Apollo mission work.”

Margaret Collins now looked like a young lady who would be using her full name from this point on. She swelled so much with vicarious pride Dot started to wonder if she might take off herself and end up bobbing around the ceiling. They were clearly never going to hear the end of this; she interjected before they were forced to scrape the girl off the plaster, motioning to the spare armchair.

“Come sit down and have some lunch, Maggie, you hardly ate any breakfast.”

Phryne turned her attention back to Dot as Maggie helped herself to a sandwich.

“And how is young Detective Collins?.” The words were still filled her with satisfaction every time she said them. Hugh would have been so proud.

“Busy on a case. He’ll be over here to pick your brains before the end of the week if I’m not very much surprised. Too proud to ask his mum though.”

As the adults were derailed by a mundane conversation about her dad’s job, Maggie played with the crust of her sandwich, still too excited to eat. Today she would see it. Man would set foot on the moon and one day, so would she. She glanced nervously over to the state of the art television set which now dominated the wall of the parlour; the piano had been moved to the library some years before to allow for a more intimate atmosphere during Jack’s recitals. Maggie had been too well brought up to demand that the set be switched on, but was practically buzzing with a mixture of excitement and apprehension – what if they missed it? What if something went wrong?

Before her resolve towards politeness could be tested, even in the presence of nanna Dot, the parlour doors were opened once again to admit two of her favourite people; Mr Bert and young Cec. The former was the wrong side of 80 and bound to a wheelchair; his older friends sometimes joked that the dog end permanently sticking out of the corner of his mouth had been there since the Great War. He was wheeled by young Cec, who at 39 was so much the spit of his father that in moments of drink and uncertainty his charge had been known to momentarily confuse them.

Albert Johnson was one of those people who, despite a life fuelled by a combination of cheap beer, cheaper tobacco and revolutionary spirits, remained entirely too stubborn to die. He had not been fully mobile since returning from service in the International Brigade, when he and his friend Cec had left home and hearth to fight a losing battle against Franco’s fascists in hope of a brave new world. According to Phryne, Bert owed his survival to the bravery and ingenuity of his late wife Maria who had been a great friend of hers. Maria had brought Bert home, missing his right leg but retaining both his life and a respectable quantity of someone else’s jewellery - the origin and subsequent fate of which Jack was not made privy to until some time after Inspector Robinson had retired. Bert’s wooden leg, which allowed him enough freedom of movement to potter around his little flat, had both of Maggie’s brothers convinced that he had once been a pirate – a rumour the old man did his best to encourage.

Poor Cecil Yates had not been so lucky; he caught a bullet in the head at the battle of Jarama in the spring of ’37 and never made It home.

Young Cec was as calm and kind-hearted a man as his father had been, but with a gregarious charm and charisma that was all his own. He and his wife ran a pub in Richmond and had taken it upon themselves to watch over his father’s old partner to make sure Bert didn’t inspire any communist uprisings from the sitting room of his grubby Fitzroy flat. Or if he did, to at least ensure that his friends were forewarned - there had been several near misses.

“G’day all!” the younger man waved at the room with one hand whilst expertly piloting Bert’s wheelchair to a spot where he could see the television with the other, receiving a chorus of greeting in return. “Hey there, Maggie – ready to see the moon-Martians?”

Maggie gave him an eye roll her uncle Jack would have been proud of. “Why would they be Martians if they lived on the moon?” actually, she was secretly hoping that they would find life of some kind up there, but she was keeping this quiet, her reputation as a scientist was at stake after all and uncle Jack didn’t think it was very likely.

“Bloody colonialists, just like the English!” interjected Bert, roused from an apparent nap. It was quite possible this was a random interjection with no relevance to the previous conversation but it was often difficult to tell.

He looked around, recognised the company and hung his head, slightly shamefaced but not too much. “Sorry Mrs C, Mrs R,” he nodded at Dot and Phryne respectively, whilst both women shot him looks that were equal parts exasperated and fond. There was not another person in the world, including both her partner and her daughter that could get away with calling Miss Fisher ‘Mrs’ anything. Albert Johnson had somehow been getting away with it since around 1938.

“Alright, Mr F? How’s life treatin’ yah?” he bared a set of insolent, nicotine stained teeth at Jack, who did his best to keep his poker face.

“That’s Inspector Fisher to you, Albert and I’m doing well. Tell me, how many things should I have you arrested for this week?”

Bert made a show of counting on his fingers. “Only fourteen Jack, but I’ve been ill.”

The adults in the room all smirked into their cups of tea and Maggie jumped up to grip young Cec about the knees in a quick and slightly dangerous embrace, knocking over Jack’s cane as she did so. She broke away almost at once, there was an important matter to be settled before events began.

“Now, uncle Bert,” she reasoned very seriously, “you’re not allowed to be cross just because the communists didn’t win! You _promised!”_ the little girl bent to give the old man an apologetic hug, it was hard when your team didn’t win, she understood that. She caught the sharp scent of old sweat and nicotine as she lent in, an olfactory comfort that would stay with her all her life.

Bert patted her hair affectionately and covertly passed her a small, surreptitious bag of toffees from his inside pocket with a wink.

“Now, Maggie, the revolution died with Trotsky as you well know. I’ve no time for these modern Russians, wouldn’t know the meaning of worker’s rights if it jumped up and bit ‘em on the arse like one of your Martians.”

Maggie giggled and Dot coughed meaningfully at the old man’s language without the slightest hope it would do any good. Phryne meanwhile could feel Jack gearing up to bait his old friend and raised her eyebrows at him. He acquiesced with a faint smile and turned on the television, tuning in to wait for the broadcast which would show man’s first tentative steps on an alien world.

Maggie’s attention snapped away from Bert at once, she practically flew back to take a seat cross legged on the floor in front of Jack’s vacated spot and waited, eyes on the flickering static as he turned the knob.

Young Cec fussed about getting Bert a cup of tea and a sandwich before turning to Phryne. “Katie says to tell you she got a post card from Jane. She’s doing well apparently.”

“Yes. She was in Crete the last time I spoke to her, although the connection could have been better. Whatever she and Harriet have dug up this time is apparently of great historical significance.” Phryne’s pride in her daughter’s accomplishments rang clear in every syllable.

Sometimes now she was older, Miss Fisher found she had more sympathy with the impatience her own mother had shown at her wanderlust. It would have been a lovely thing to have her daughter close; still, she would not exchange the woman Jane had become for anything in the world. Even as she left middle age behind her, the no-longer-so-young Jane showed no sign of slowing down; between her and her partner the world of archaeology was apparently being reshaped with every ancient coin they unearthed.

“Shhhh!”

Maggie was too excited for politeness now. Jack had resumed his place on the sofa behind her and the crackle of static had given way to a news reporter behind a desk. The little girl was sat bolt upright and stock still, eyes wide as flying saucers, drinking in every word.

Somehow, despite months of following the fascinating progress of the Apollo mission in every paper and scientific journal he could find, at this moment, Jack only had eyes for Maggie. Phryne in turn was watching them both; there was something in the firm set of Maggie’s soft jaw and her serious, unrelenting stare that made her think of Jack when he was working through some tricky problem in his head. She could see him watching the little girl with such adoration that Phryne felt an uncharacteristic prickle behind her eyes. She blinked quickly before anyone noticed and slipped her hand into Jack’s. He looked over at her, missing nothing, and placed his other hand gently over their clasped palms, swollen knuckles brushing against fragile skin with all the love of lives well lived. They lent back on the sofa, her head against his shoulder; a wisp of grey fell forward over her cheek and he reached up to smooth it back, pressing a soft kiss into her hair.

At their feet little Maggie Collins sat, oblivious to all except the screen in front of her, where mankind was in the process of taking a great leap forward into a world of hope and possibility. She stared enraptured, little feet feeling out the toes of big shoes as she saw herself, for a moment, walking in the footsteps of giants.    


End file.
